


between the shadow and the soul

by monroe (thimble)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Other, and the concept of servants summoning other servants, berserker!Enkidu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 12:49:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/monroe
Summary: Gilgamesh, and the art of remembrance.





	between the shadow and the soul

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tenuous Strain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17446862) by [AshenFeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshenFeathers/pseuds/AshenFeathers). 



> This is vengeance.

He sees them and a myriad of emotions, most of which he’s buried long ago, unearth themselves from the ruins of his heart.

First, recognition—he would know their presence anywhere, sense them no matter the distance. He needs not even see the color of their hair or the storm always brewing in their eyes; just them, being there, is enough.

(It has always been enough.)

There’s anger, that he has to see them reduced to an existence so savage, and beneath that anger something more aching and bruised. If they had ever had to meet again, who decided it would be like this? How much suffering are two people supposed to endure until the gods have had their fill? Why could they not be left to rest in peace?

And then, at the core of it all, one thing seizes him and threatens never to let go: terror, felt only once before but again right now, not for his own sake but for theirs, at the mere thought that they have to bear something so great, the notion that this is all they will ever be allowed.

The idea comes to him, lightning in the desert, so preposterous only he could have ever entertained it. If legend is true it has happened with other servants; why not to him, who commands all of heaven and earth?

Why not to them, bound to each other like no god or man have ever been to another?

The grail answers him swiftly, as if impressed with either his courage or his foolishness—but Gilgamesh would swear later that neither have ever crossed his mind.

There is only certainty; there is no other option.

They are no tool and they never have been, but if anyone must wield them like one, no one else can ever have the right. He tells the grail this, resolute, and as the command seals burn themselves onto the back of his hand he seems to hear it laugh, quiet as mockery, thunderous as their song.

Enkidu raises their head for the first time since they appeared, feral eyes locking onto his, and for a moment everyone in the vicinity seems to hold their breath, the evidence on his skin suddenly paltry at the notion that it might not have worked, couldn’t have.

But Gilgamesh stands firm. Of course it worked.

It worked because he is himself, and they are them.

With eyes for no one else, he smiles. He does not say his next words as much as he makes them known as he holds out his arms, wide in welcome, open in total surrender.

_Come back to me, old friend._

When they charge at him, he stands firm.

When they collide, he stands firm.

When they sink into his embrace, he maintains the illusion, steadfast, no matter how his knees yearn to weaken. His smile grows as he bows his head into their hair, stroking his fingers through the soft strands like he’s done countless times, countless years ago.

Fear and fury dissipate so suddenly in the wake of protectiveness. They made themselves his sword and his shield, back then. Perhaps now, he has been given the chance to return the favor, for no one else would ever harm them, no one else would dare.

With every other emotion a mere memory, only one remains.

He pulls back slightly to rest his forehead against theirs, their silence no such deterrent to the vastness of what he feels. Words have always failed him, insufficient to describe its gravity.

“Enkidu,” he says, the best even a king could do as the rest of the world halts and fades away.

There is only love.

Between them, there has only ever been love.

 

* * *

  

 _I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
_in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

  
― Pablo Neruda, "100 Love Sonnets"


End file.
